


Nothin' But Trouble

by Talkin_to_a_Lady



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Male-Female Friendship, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talkin_to_a_Lady/pseuds/Talkin_to_a_Lady
Summary: A life-long friendship finally blossoms into something more
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Nothin' But Trouble

You threw the kindling and firewood you had gathered down with a _thud_ and knelt beside it. One smart thing Arthur had done that day was suggest to pick up some wood for a fire while you were actually near some, “Considerin’ the ass whoopin’ you gave me last time when we had to slog back an hour,” he had whinged at you with a wink. Camping under the stars was all well and good if you’re a burly Outlaw twice the height and breadth of most you’d encounter, but being a ‘lil lady’ as they _so often_ liked to call you, it was nothing but harassment, and the last time you’d been sent on a trail on your own, and you came back with a black eye and covered in what turned out to be three other people’s blood, Dutch suggested that an escort might be wise. Naturally, Arthur had volunteered.

You had known him since you were both practically kids; having run with him on the streets of Illinois. You were a couple of years younger than him and living out of a Catholic orphanage in the town, and he was your chance at adventure and rebellion. He taught you to break in and out of places, pickpocket, steal, and punch _hard_. Then one day he was gone. It wasn’t until you were 16 and turned out from the place you’d called home for so long, that you’d seen him again.  
“I ain’t forgotten you, gurly!” he had chuckled. He was 18; a young man who seemed calmer, more resilient, less angry at the world. He explained how he knew what would happen on your 16th Birthday, and that he wasn’t going to let you sleep on the streets like he had. He told you that he had convinced his new family to take you in. And that day you became a Van der Linde. You knew you could never repay him for the care he’d had, but helping him train his dog, Copper, much to the dismay of your mentors, had been a start.  
You watched him go from a feral animal to a young, lithe, handsome gentleman, into a brawny, strong, statue of a man. You had rolled your eyes as the men teased him about when they’d celebrated his 16th Birthday; the night he ‘ _became a man_ ’ with a Saloon girl, then heard him sheepishly confess to you in private that all they had done was cuddle, which made you laugh your ass off.  
You listened with some envy the night he told you about Mary and how he’d fallen so completely in an instant. Being his best friend, you endured the complaints, the confusion, the quizzing about how a woman’s mind worked, about how to impress her family, how to impress _her_. You had heard the muffled fumbles in the night and the rejections and the whispered arguments. You bit your tongue when you heard her say to him that how you all lived wasn’t right. And then, there you sat comforting his broken heart when she stomped it out. He had joked that you were so wise “for a kid”, and pushed you to try and find someone, even teasing that you should date John at one point, “ _JOHN?!”_ you’d exclaimed in horror, “He’s like an annoyin’ little squirt of a brother!” and you’d both laughed.

 _Then there was Eliza_.

You watched on that night at the Saloon as he became very generous in buying drinks at the bar, taking a long time to return thanks to a raven-haired youthful siren of a woman. And 4 weeks later came the panicked shake of your shoulder in your tent one night; a drunken Arthur had stumbled in, “Arrreyer awake, Y/N?” He’d slurred, his voice cracking  
“Well now I am, Arthur. What the hell is it? _You reek of booze_!”  
“That waitresssss? Sshe’s gonna be a… Well I-I’mma be a pa!”  
“ _What?!”_ A few-night stands became a four-year part-time relationship where he would keep some of his cuts from robberies aside for his son, Isaac, and Eliza. He would be gone a week or so at a time every so often. He would bombard you with questions you really would prefer not to answer, “You think Isaac would like to go fishin’? I mean I think he’s old enough now, and Hosea has a spare fishin’ rod I could give him.”  
“I don’t know, Arthur, I ain’t a four year old boy.”  
“Do you think Eliza was expectin’ me to marry her? I mean that’s the proper thing ain’t it? But I don’t love her, and I can’t do that to either of them; this life is far worse for her than some judgemental stares from townsfolk ain’t it?”  
You had rolled your eyes and huffily told him to do whatever the hell he wanted. Six months later it was all taken from him. He had done what Arthur Morgan did best; discuss it briefly in one half-hour outpouring of truth, then seal it deep down in the recesses of his tattered heart, and it almost broke you as much to watch him as it did him to live through it. He changed after that, he second-guessed himself whenever women approached him either for a fun dance in Camp, or to offer their services to him. The only thing that didn’t change was how he was with you; joking at your expense, roughhousing you, giving you the nickname ‘Trouble’ because, well, you pretty much were. He would rib you about the guys you spent time with and scared a few off in Saloons – much to your frustration. And for the last two years, he was your chaperone on jobs for Dutch. You smile; everything was more fun when Arthur was with you.

“You prayin’ or ligntin’ a fire?” he smirked, “Sittin’ there starin’ at nothin’ while I’m freezin’ my ass off tyin’ the horses up for the night.”  
“Shut your hole, Morgan. I’m tired!” you look up at him, standing hands on hips, his head leaning to the side as he stares down at you playfully, that boyish glint in green-blue eyes you could swim in.  
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I have no idea what it’s like to be tired. _Let me do everythin’_!” he stuck out his lower lip with a mocking pout and turned back to remove the packs from the horses. What you’d give to shut that man’s mouth with your own, you thought. You pull some matches and ignition gauze from your satchel, make a pyre with the smaller bracken and bark, and proceed to light the campfire.

Arthur smiles as he goes back to unpack the horses, “ _Always daydreamin’._ ” he mutters to himself with a head shake as he heaves the saddles from your horses, placing them between the tent and the makeshift hitch post he’s made from your lassos. He looks back towards you as you go about setting the fire. He always enjoyed watching your mind wander, it had never changed from being a teenager; your head would tilt upwards a little, your eyes would absent-mindedly close and open with a flutter when a breeze caressed your face, and sometimes even the softest of smiles would creep across your lips. You were so completely unaware of how that smallest of habits calmed him. He had secretly sketched you so often when out on trails; the morning light haloing you in that position. Making sure to fill in the full detail of your face once you had drifted to sleep in the tent you shared when scouting. He sighed, relieved you had never managed to get a hold of his journal; some of the sketches weren’t just of your face, and a little _imagination_ had been required, but he knew his life was not worth living if you had ever for a moment thrown your respect for him away and grabbed that book.  
It hadn’t always been that way; for a long time, a friend really was what you were to him, but it changed after Mary. He saw you differently after the night you’d dragged him away from the drink, punched him in the gut to sober up, and forced him to discuss everything. He had tried to push for information as to why you were never stepping out with men, and you had teased him saying there weren’t a fella that could best you so why bother. He always thought he’d be a fair contender. Then one night of misunderstanding led to changing his life again and completely. You were all out drinking, and you - being the sassy upstart that joked rougher than the men, meant you were somewhat at the mercy of them. Javier hadn’t long been on the scene; his Latino ways with women were renowned, and he’d chosen that night to focus them on you. It had made Arthur’s insides growl as he saw you laughing brightly in the face of the newcomer; playfully shoving Javier away and talking with a tantalisingly flirtatious expression. Arthur had spent the rest of the night trying to escape it at the bar, until Eliza had coaxed him round. He had hidden in her bed for four days before returning to Camp and finding out that Javier had been thoroughly unsuccessful in his conquests, not for want of trying, though the two of you still flirted irritatingly well, even to this day. Then, a month later, Eliza told him the news he had never wanted to hear. He hadn’t married her because she wasn’t interested in a nomadic, violent lifestyle to bring up their son and, well, he hadn’t wanted to, _not her_ at least. For those years he never took the hand of another woman. He begun to consider trying to make a life with his unexpected family, especially as he saw your womanhood fully develop into being a devastating heart – and bed – breaker on all accounts. Though throughout that time, there had been snatched moments where he felt something could have shifted with you if he were a less moral man towards Eliza. He had escorted you back to Camp numerous times after seeing you sneak from homesteads in town; hair wild and clothes on backwards. Then there was the night you kissed him; he was certain you didn’t remember, but he wouldn’t ever forget. You had been singing at the piano in some rough dive of a bar; some smutty verse you’d learnt with gusto at Camp; you enraptured all the men; drunk and sober, and one was overly keen on finding out more about you. Arthur admitted to himself that the man in question was a little too handsome for comfort, and he didn’t like the way you looked at him. He pre-empted the necessity to remove him from the equation and threw him out, knocking him to the mud with one solid punch. You had yelled at him, drunk on cognac and port, swinging at him and staggering angrily away. He had followed you, “Whyyy won’t you jussst let me be, Mmmorgan?” you’d warbled, “Heee sssseemed nice enoughff”  
“Not for you he ain’t.” had been his response, “and you’re drunk.”  
“Courssse Ihm Druunk! I wasss in a bar!” You’d stood there, swaying as he steadied you, “You alwaysss say they ainn’t good enoughff…” you had looked at him as seriously as was possible under the circumstances; your eyes wide and doe-like in the night, your lips slightly parted as you tried to remember how to breathe and stand at the same time, “how’sss about if _you_ are, huh?” Before he could understand what was happening, you had stumbled forward onto him and pressed your mouth against his, and despite how rag-doll-like your limbs had been, a sobriety forced its way through you, and _Christ Alive_ , a storm raged inside him as he pulled you against his body. It was a brief, heated, delight of a moment, and then it was over as you vomited at his feet, and he carried you home unconscious in his arms. He never mentioned it again. He had missed his chance; just friends would all you could ever be now. Even with that thought constantly shouting through his mind, he was careful not to be seen being overly familiar with anyone else of the female persuasion, _just in case._ With a sigh he pulled two very large bottles of whiskey from a pack and treaded softly towards you.

You felt a presence by the side of your face, a knock on your shoulder followed as you looked up, Arthur standing almost against you, a smile on his face and two bottles in his hand.  
“Hey, why are you wearin’ those?” he gesticulates to your black leather rifleman gloves.  
“What? A Lady can’t change up her style?” you ask innocently as he sits closely beside you, handing you a bottle as he leans on one arm behind you to support himself.  
“I ain’t never really seen you wear gloves, and seein’ as you started a couple of weeks ago I was a little intrigued. Plus, your style has been a constant, _lacklustre_ affair our whole lives.”  
“You really are goin’ the right way for a smack in the mouth, Morgan!” he laughs full in your face at that threat  
“I’d not want to ruin your gloves m’lady!”  
You chuckled and looked down sheepishly at your hands as they gripped the bottle. You decided to tell him the truth, “Okay,” you sigh, “I figured that _one day_ some man might actually want me to run my hands all over his body, and that would be a helluva nicer feelin’ if my hands weren’t as rough as his own.” You feel almost guilty, but you had resigned yourself to the idea that nothing would happen between you and Arthur beyond this life-long friendship, and you weren’t a woman who wanted to humiliate yourself any further by acting like some hanger on.  
Arthur’s face dropped a little and his brow furrowed, “Huh.” He took a swig of his drink then smirked, “you know, maybe the fella’s been so used to his own rough hands, you havin’ them would be a comfort.”  
“Oh, fuck off, Morgan!” you both laugh as you drink from your bottle, “Where’s this come from?”  
“Well, whiskey generally comes from Scotland, Y/N, _you of all people_ should know that, the amount you drink.”  
“I drink the same amount as you, Morgan.” You chide, taking a bottle  
“Yeah, and you’re half my size.”  
You take a deep breath at his proximity. Bad idea; he smelt of sandalwood and tobacco. You raise the middle finger to him as you take a hastily large gulp of drink. His chiselled face chuckling at you.  
“C’mon, where’d you get this? I heard the fellas complainin’ we didn’t have anythin’ but beer.”  
“When I last went gettin’ provisions for Pearson, the Shop Girl dropped them in free of charge.” You freeze and look at him with a raised eyebrow as he shrugs matter-of-factly, clinks your bottle and drinks.  
“ _Free of charge?_ ”  
“Yeah. I figured it was because we give them so much business, kind of like a thank you. But seein’ as it were only two, I didn’t figure it smart to let the Camp try and share them... why?”  
“Oh! I’m _sure_ that’s why a Shop Girl’s giftin’ _you_ bottles of hooch!”  
“… What do you mean…?”  
You snort and shake your head in disbelief at his sheer obliviousness to how he was seen by others, “Nothin’, Arthur. I’m sure it’s all above board.” You take another large gulp of whiskey and he shuffles uncomfortably, his shoulder grazing yours.  
He shifts his weight into his left hip, his entire body ever closer as his brow furrows in the firelight, “… You think I shoulda paid for them?” he asks with genuine concern, “I mean, she _said ‘on the house’_ … Maybe I should go back and pay for them…”  
“Jesus Christ, Arthur!” you laugh with frustration, “If you go back to pay for them, she ain’t wantin’ money!”  
The wide eyed, terrified look of a boy peered out from the man’s weathered features, “You mean she-”  
“You have a certain… _effect_ on women, Arthur.”

Arthur’s ears prick up, _women_ ; plural. Not just young shop girls who barely see other humans outside of their homestead, he laughed it off, “Be quiet woman. It weren’t nothin’ like that.”  
“It has been like that your whole life, for god’s sake. And why do you think us ladies put up with your shit at Camp?” the lack of food and sleep today was mixing with the liquor, and you had gone beyond caring about making things uncomfortable; he was sat far too close for you to stay resilient, “You don’t see Bill or Sean gettin’ let off things, or Javier for that matter… well… _Maybe_ Javi-”  
“Yeah okay, okay, we all know how _beautiful Javier is_!” Arthur interrupted sulkily as he thought on about the way you interacted with him as he poured drink down his throat and sat forward, resting his arms on his knees.  
It made you laugh to see petulance in such a beast of a man; his shoulders struggling to stay hunched forwards, pulling his shirt taught across his back as it tapered neatly to tuck into his jeans, “ _I’m tryin’ to say_ that… Well… You get away with a lot, Mister Morgan. And this whiskey business is yet another example.” You see his body relax a little as he huffs out a small chortle and leans back beside you, resting on his elbows, his long, strong legs stretched out for eternity as he looks up at you, “I dunno, I try to do somethin’ nice for you and all you do is ride me for it!”  
Something happened. Something causes the tension to increase between you; you both freeze in your expressions, eyes fixed on one another as that last sentence hangs in the air like a tantalising treat. Finally, Arthur laughs and playfully acts out a shrug of ‘ _it’s only a suggestion_ ’ before swigging his drink, _you_ _dumbass_ , _Morgan_ , he thinks to himself as he hears you laugh cautiously.

Your heart is racing as you feel sweat begin to tingle at the hollow of your neck, you take a third big glug of whiskey, trying to understand what just happened. As you drink, you see Arthur leaning on one elbow, still looking up at you, his right leg bent at the knee as he has a mischievous smirk on his face, “So… Tell me, Y/N, _why exactly_ I get away with shit in Camp – As you _so politely_ put it.”  
You feel your skin flush and you hate it; you had always been so careful to hide that side from him, but that smirk! That long, broad grin pulled across his face, the firelight flicking something wicked in his eyes, the way he lay beside you; his shirt collar unbuttoned; the fabric falling open enough for you to see the lightest tufts of chest hair stretching out, his hands carelessly fondling the widest part of the bottle; his fingers flexing and squeezing. This was a scene you had rocked yourself to sleep with on many a night at Camp, but here it was _in the flesh_ , in the delightful, living, breathing, firm flesh of Arthur Morgan. You allow yourself a smile, as you play it off as teasing, “holster your guns there, Cowboy, we don’t need that ego of yours strokin’.”  
Arthur pulls himself up to be parallel to your face again. It had been a mere glimpse of something in you, but with the way he felt, it was enough to push him on, “That ain’t fair! Not like I get much stroked these days!”  
“You forgotten how to do it yourself?” you tease, one eyebrow raised as you take a victory sip of whiskey. Almost ¾ of the bottle gone now and you are letting it dictate your actions.  
“Unfortunately, no.” he leans into you, his glistening eyes relaxed under his lowered eyelids, a sleepy grin plays at his thick lips, the tip of his nose nudges yours, “Maybe I should get a Shop Girl to help me out instead.”  
“You’re an asshole!” you return his laugh as you go to shove him back from your face. He catches you in his arms and pulls you tight to him, your bright laugh stinging his very soul with light as he smiles, a deep growling chuckle rumbling in his throat. Your hands are pinned to his chest and you feel his heart pummelling against it, as if it’s responding to your own, “Is that you or me?” he asks as he feels your own heartbeat.  
“I couldn’t tell you, Morgan, does it matter?” you look at him, your breath catching in your throat as he shifts his body without relinquishing you. He pulls you onto your knees as his legs come either side of you; his knees raised. He looks deeply into your eyes, searching for permission as he leans his face closer to yours, his breath fast and nervous. He rubs his nose against the edge of your own as you close your eyes, the anticipation throbbing at your core. You grip his shirt and pull yourself to his lips. The fire that springs from you both is immediate; you feel Arthur’s finger tips grip your back so tightly that his nails catch on your blouse, you struggle your arms awkwardly free, to reach for his hair, but the whiskey and Arthur’s own force knock him backwards and you land with a winded grunt.  
He grabs your ass with both hands, lowers his legs and in one swift movement, hoists you up, letting your legs swing over his, dropping you back down you feel the thickness of his length straining through both sets of pants, the force of it almost ripping the seams, “why… did… we pick… a… goddamn… open prairie?” he asked breathlessly between kisses, his hands running up your back, tugging at the ribbon of your braid, letting your locks fall forward across you both before he gathers them in his hands, desperate to enjoy every moment of you, but too overwhelmed to concentrate on any one point. He shoves himself to a sitting position to kiss your neck, the gravity of the position pushing his thickness even tighter against you.  
“because you’re a goddamn idiot,” you groan as he breathes warm, whiskey-soaked air down your skin as he runs a light tongue tip across your throat, tasting the salted pool of sweat where your collarbone dips. He stops and looks at you with a wildness you haven’t seen since you were kids, pushes your hips to move you off him and stands, grabbing your hand, practically running to the tent with you. It’s pitch-black now save for the orange glow of the campfire. He never finished unpacking everything; there’s no lamp, and one bed roll. You both stop outside the entrance and take a moment to look at one another.  
His silhouette against the fire is monolithic as it blocks the stars from your view; he moves towards you, placing his hands on your hips, “I hope alcohol don’t always need to be involved in anythin’ future.” He mutters with a smile as he leans in.  
“… huh?”  
“Nothin’, Trouble.” he growls onto your lips before following with the softest, most tender kiss imaginable. He has regained some control, at least for a moment; he wanted to remember this; to remember you in this moment. Another life changing night.  
His lips are soft and plump, and he opens his mouth enough to introduce his tongue to you. You groan as it twists with your own, and you feel Arthur’s grip change; his hands squeeze you tightly and he pushes a long urgent breath out from his nose as he slams you against him once more.  
You pull back, running your hands down his arms, gripping his hands in yours, you look up at him, “Is… is this what you want?” you ask.  
He lifts a hand from yours and pulls it through your hair, “for longer than you can imagine,” he says softly, his voice a quiet rumble on the breeze. You smile and take his hand from your hair, leading him inside, “even in those damned gloves,” he couldn’t resist one last dig.  
“You’re a jackass,” you chuckle as he spins you around in the dark, by your waist.  
“Yeeeaaahh, but I’m your jackass,” he lets his hands drift over your body blindly as his vision tries to adjust to the darkness, “this could be fun,” he muses as he pulls the smallest whimpers from you as his hands graze over your clothed curves. He steps carefully against you, struggling to unbutton your shirt in the dark, “though it could also be real, fuckin’ irritatin’.” He grumbles with a strain, “Ah screw it, I’ll get ya another!” he rips your blouse open and lunges hungrily down to your chest, “why do you women insist on dressin’ in so many layers?” he mumbles into your undershirt as his rough hands run up your arms, his fingers deftly sneak to the straps of your shirt and peels them down, rolling the top down fully to your waistband. He stops a little puzzled.  
“You’re supposed to _lift_ _it_ _up_ , not roll it down, Morgan” you start to laugh as he fumbles onto your waistband.  
“Give a guy a break, alright? I can’t see a goddamn thing!” He sighs and puts his head against yours, “This ain’t how I pictured this goin’.”  
“But you’ve pictured it goin’ somewhere?” your heart skips as he nods against you. You place your hands on his shoulder and stand him upright, walk to the tent entrance and open it to let the firelight in.  
You walk back with a smile, turn his back to the entry and stand yourself in the light, “Is this more what you had in mind?” though his face is in shade, his shallow, loud breathing gives away his expression as you untuck your undershirt, and pull it teasingly over your head, letting it flutter to the floor.  
Arthur runs a hand through his hair as you kick off your boots and unbuckle your jeans, sliding them with your underwear down your legs, slipping them off and standing slowly back up to him.  
He froze for a moment, trying desperately to see every detail he had imagined and sketched, the light taunted him with flickers of your skin; the curve of your breasts, your hips, he let out a whine of arousal as he kicks off his boots and pulls his shirt over his head marching towards you, wrapping one thick forearm under your ass and one supporting your back, lifting you to the bed roll.  
You feel the heat from his chest as he drags his body down yours, stopping to allow his senses to caress every inch of you, memorising your warmth, your scent, each individual goosebump as he runs his lips, tongue, nose down your ribs, his hand staying at your breasts, running a thumb gently across your nipple. He shifts between your legs, running his hand over your ass as he kisses your inner thighs. You feel his unshaven jawline stretch in a grin as you shudder at his touch, he looks up to gaze on your body as the warm glow reaches to touch you as anxiously as he did. He is lost in the sight of you; your breasts rising and falling with heavy sighs as you stretch your arms up over your face, the way the light pooled across your curves, glowing on the softness of your stomach. His drawings didn’t begin to do you justice, he thought.  
“ _Arthur… just… just-please._ ” Your voice pulls him back from distraction and he more than willingly obliges. He gently returns to kissing your thighs, coaxing the shudders he now lived for as he moved his lips to your most intimate part, the tip of his nose nuzzles your clit and you jolt your knees upwards, you feel him grin again, his hot breath waving over you as he parts you with his thick, warm tongue, he groans with excitement as you arch above him, and he lifts your thighs up on to his shoulders to keep your legs apart.  
“ _Oh god,_ ” you whisper, caught in the pleasure he is bringing, he slides his tongue more firmly into you, willing you to speak again. Your hands run up to your face and you realise they’re still covered, “ _These goddamn gloves!”_ you hiss through your teeth, fighting to get them off. Your hips roll as you feel a hot shot of breath reach inside you as Arthur gives a small laugh at your nonsense. You grip him with your legs and gasp, “ _Don’t laugh at me, Morgan!_ ” you manage, as your whole body begins to tingle.  
“Then don’t make me laugh.” He looks up at you briefly with a wicked grin before making his way back to your core, “Though you didn’t seem to mind,” mumbles into you, his rough, gravelled voice vibrating across you making you whine with delight. He circles your nerve endings and pushes his tongue deep into you.  
“ _Arthur_ ” you moan as you feel his grip on your ass tighten  
He lifts his head, “That’s all I was waitin’ for.” he sits back on his knees, runs a thick, rough hand down from your throat, between your breasts, along your middle, and onto your moistened clit, stroking at your core as he rubs at his fly, leaving you for a moment to remove his pants completely.  
You look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes piercing through the darkness, never leaving your figure, the lines and deep cuts of his muscles draw long shadows across his body as the ebbing firelight hits him. You watch his body flex and tense as he works his fly loose quickly, dropping back to his knees, almost crawling out of his jeans at the final moment. He sits back on his haunches, runs his hands eagerly from your ankles, up your shins, and land gripping your calves. With one hungry pull, he drags you to him, throwing your legs over his hips. He leans down to push a desperate kiss hard on your lips, and you both groan with anticipation, your core aching to be touched again as you feel his length hot and hard against you.  
“ _Please_ ” you whisper into his mouth, “ _Please, Arthur._ ”  
At the mention of his name he leans up and places his hands on your hips, lifting them to match his angle. He carefully works the very edges of you with his length, making you slick, readying you for him. His eyes close with impatience as he tries to wait for you to open to him. He pushes slowly into you with a deep, guttural growl as you gasp, almost ready to come undone then and there as he fills you. He hardens even more as he feels the wave of warmth embrace him, his head drops back as he begins to roll his hips into you, guiding your own motion with his strong hands. He fights his own instincts to close his eyes so he can look down at you as you writhe below him, your body tight and warm over him, he grits his teeth, keeping himself going for you, his skin is on fire; he’s barely moving as he watches you ride him from below. You feel him pulse inside you with every rock of your hips, you hear him mumble your name along with multiple profanities as his hands grip tighter, tighter still on you, you run your hand over the downy hair on his chest, dragging a light nail down his torso and his eyes close and body stutters as his sweat rains softly across your stomach. You grab his arm and pull yourself to sit up on him, allowing gravity to work its magic properly this time. He opens his eyes as you put your hands on his face and kiss him. He looks at you with an expression you’ve never seen before; ecstatic and pleading, grateful and infatuated. He grips your ass as you tighten your legs around him, unable to tear yourselves from each other’s gaze as you rock together, letting the crescendo build; your climax deep and intense as you both grip the other, arching yourselves into your final explosive finish.

With a breathless chuckle he leans exhaustedly against your chest. And pulls you tight to him before gently lowering you back to the bed roll, and carefully pulling from you with a sigh. He lies beside you, and kisses your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair before using his arms to drag you against him, nuzzling into the nape of your neck, “So I think I know why you let me get away with shit in Camp now,” he jokes.  
You grin, your eyes closed in contentment, “I just try and do somethin’ nice for you, like let you off chores, and all you do is ride me for it.” His laugh is loud and light and your skin puckers at its very existence, “And you best not take gifts from Shop Girls no more, Mister.” You tease.  
He wraps his arms tightly around you, “What Shop Girls? It’s just you.”


End file.
